


Sweep the Kitchen

by Saone



Series: A Lunch Counter Love Story [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Deaf Clint Barton, Diners, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Getting Together, Glasses kink, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saone/pseuds/Saone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thor/Jane: Mightier Than the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

"For the love of God, does anyone have a pencil?!"

As Jane's plaintive cry rises above the normal diner din, Clint violently jerks, making the knife in his hand skitter across the cutting board. Still thankfully in possession of all ten fingers, he spins around and takes stock of the situation.

Jane is standing in the middle of the diner. Her chest is heaving with frustration, and there's a manic, wild look in her eyes that Clint recognizes all too well. 

"I'm having a thought," Jane says, her voice trembling. "No, no, it's not just a thought; it's an epiphany. An epiphany! I _need_ something to write with! Anything!"

Clint stares, wide-eyed, along with everyone else in the diner as Jane slowly turns in a circle, her movements getting even more erratic. Usually Darcy, who's still the best at handling their resident genius, would have stepped in by now. Then Clint remembers; Darcy had a dental appointment this afternoon.

"Aw, crap," he mutters.

"Pencil?! Pen?! Marker?!" Jane throws her trembling hands into the air. "Lipstick?! Eyeliner?! _Something_?!

Clint figures that, as owner of the establishment and Jane's boss, it's his duty to step up. He puts down his knife and opens his mouth, ready to make soothing, placating noises, when he's stopped by the sound of someone clearing his throat.

"Excuse me," Detective Odinson says. He eases out of his chair and approaches Jane, stopping only a foot or so away from her. "If I may..." He reaches up and carefully plucks a pen out of the half dozen writing implements Jane's been absently sticking in her updo throughout the day.

Jane's eyes cross as Odinson brings the pen down in front of her face. "Oh." Her eyes uncross as she looks at Odinson. " _Oh_." A dopey smile comes over her face. "Thank you. That's... Thanks."

Odinson grins at her in return. "I believe you had an epiphany."

"I had a what?" Jane says, a little breathless. "Oh. Oh! Right, yes! Paper! Paper!" She frantically pats at the pockets on her apron, then pulls out a little notebook and starts to scribble furiously.

Crisis averted, almost everyone in the diner turns back to their food. Odinson, however, remains standing, watching Jane with a clearly besotted look on his face. 

"I did not see that coming," Peter says softly before he hands Luke a new order.

Clint shakes his head, exchanges an amused glance with Luke, then goes back to cutting up tomatoes.


	2. Clint/Phil: Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.
> 
> Warnings: This chapter deals with past traumas associated with Clint's attack and Phil's job.

Now that Clint has his own place, secure and solid, he tends to sleep like the dead. When Phil first started spending the night, he had worried that having someone else in his bed might be disruptive, but Phil fits so well, there was never an issue with Clint getting to sleep.

The nightly orgasms probably help with that. 

No, getting to sleep isn't the problem. Staying asleep once Phil starts having what turns out to be a rather viscous nightmare, that's the problem.

"I had no idea," Phil says, looking all kinds of guilty as Clint holds a washcloth full of ice against a developing bruise on his arm. They're both sitting on Clint's bed. Phil's slumped over and one of his hands is pressed against his forehead. "It's been so long since I shared a bed with someone. I... God, Clint, I am so sor-"

"Phil," Clint says, cutting off the apology. "It's okay."

"It's really not."

"It _really_ is. You didn't mean to hurt me; you were only flailing a bit. Or a lot. I mean, come on, you used to be a Ranger; if you wanted to do some damage, you could have just choked me out." Phil's face falls even further, and Clint realizes that this might not be the best time for levity. "Hey," he says, poking at Phil's thigh, "do you think you're the only guy in the world who has nightmares? Do you think you're the only person in this room who has nightmares? 'Cause, I have to tell you, I have had some pretty shitty ones."

"Have you ever hurt someone during your nightmares?" Phil asks, obviously bound and determined to wallow for a bit.

"No," Clint says slowly. "After... after what happened, it was kind of rare that I would trust anyone enough to want to sleep beside them. I used to wake up screaming a lot, though. It's weird, because I don't really remember the attack." Clint frowns and once again mentally pokes at that little dark spot in his mind. "The worst times were while the trial was going on. I was staying in this little apartment, and the first time it happened, the neighbors called the cops. They thought I was being murdered or something. I didn't even realize how loud I was..." He trails off as Phil pulls him into a loose hug and presses a kiss against his temple.

Clint sighs and happily accepts Phil's warmth and comfort. He debates trying to turn the affection into something more. Another round of sex would certainly take Phil's mind off of his problems, but it wouldn't solve anything.

"Do you think it would help if you talked about it?" Clint asks.

"I've seen therapists before."

"No, I mean, with me. Like now." Clint pulls back a bit so he can brush at the hair by Phil's ear. "It's obvious that there's something nasty in your head right now. Maybe it would help if you got it out."

Phil lets out a long huff of air. "I'd rather not. I just don't... I know you're strong - Jesus, so strong - but the kind of stuff I see, the stuff I have seen, I don't want to expose you to that, not even anecdotally."

Clint presses a kiss to the side of Phil's mouth. "Protective," he murmurs.

Phil's hold tightens. "Of course."

For a moment they just sit there, wrapped in each other, sharing breath. The tension in Phil's face is fading, and Clint can't help but feel sleep pull at him. Then, he realizes something.

"Hey," Clint says, pulling away again, "you totally deflected."

Phil, who looked close to dozing off himself, blinks a few times. "What?"

"You. You just deflected. I asked you if you thought talking to me would help, but you gave me a reason, not an answer." Clint's eyes narrow. "Arguing with you is going to be an experience, isn't it?"

"Clint-"

"Give me an answer."

The corners of Phil's mouth turn down into what Clint has discovered is the Detective Coulson version of a pout. "The answer doesn't matter because the reason still stands."

"Phil," Clint says, "just because you talk, doesn't mean I have to listen."

"Have we really reached that point in our relationship already?"

Clint rolls his eyes and shoves at Phil's shoulder. He then reaches up and carefully removes his hearing aids. He leans over to his nightstand and places them in the special dish he keeps there. When he turns back, he isn't prepared for the open and raw look he finds on Phil's face. 

Phil starts to say something, but Clint holds a finger up to his lips. With a few pushes, he maneuvers Phil so his head is back against their pillows. Clint pulls the covers over them, then snuggles in close, throwing one of his legs over Phil's and tucking his face into Phil's neck.

Being careful to keep his voice low and even, Clint whispers, "Talk to me."

For a moment, a long moment, all Clint can feel is Phil's chest steadily rising and falling with each breath, then he starts to pick up on a vibration against the skin of his cheek. Clint's eyelids drift shut as Phil's voice lulls him back to sleep.


	3. Clint/Phil: Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

The first time Phil sees Clint standing on the edge of the roof, his heart stops beating and promptly relocates itself to his throat. The only thing that stops him from going into a full out panic is that Natasha, eyes closed and face tilted towards the setting sun, is lounging on the parapet by Clint's feet. The small part of Phil's brain that isn't gibbering in horror calmly informs him that if fierce and protective Natasha isn't worried about Clint's well-being, he probably doesn't have to be either.

Phil swallows and walks forward. He doesn't get more than a few feet before Natasha's stirring from her repose and poking at Clint's calf.

"You're causing your boyfriend palpitations, Barton," she says, without giving Phil a glance.

"What?" Clint spins on his heel, and Phil's fingers reflexively clench even though he's nowhere close enough to grab onto cloth or skin if Clint fell. 

But Clint doesn't fall. He grins, bright and happy, as he - thank God - hops down onto the roof and swiftly crosses the distance between them. Phil automatically tilts his head and closes his eyes as Clint's hands reach for his waist and he's pulled into a kiss. Phil's own hands flex against Clint's wide shoulders, and when Clint tries to pull back, he clings a little bit.

"You okay?" Clint asks against Phil's mouth.

"Oh, yeah," Phil says. "I'm fine." He hears Natasha snort. "I'm _fine_ ," he says again.

Clint frowns. He keeps his arms around Phil's middle, but twists enough so that his head can swivel back and forth between him and Natasha. Phil tries to keep his face neutral, but Natasha cuts her eyes from Phil to the edge of the roof then back to Phil before she ever so slightly quirks one eyebrow.

"Oh." Clint's cheeks flush as his expression turns sheepish. "Uh, did I ever tell you that I really like heights?"

"No," Phil says, "you didn't."

"Huh. Did I ever tell you that the trick I usually got the biggest applause for was the one where I stood on the back of a galloping horse and still bulls-eyed every target because I have an incredible sense of balance and aim?"

Phil knows that Clint's trying to put him at ease, but his mind still can't help but think of broken bones, and dislocated things, and Clint's apparently long-standing lack of self-preservation. "No, you never shared that story either."

"Hmmm." A slight wickedness starts to overtake the hangdog in Clint's expression. "Did I ever tell you that when I was twenty I had a torrid love affair with an aerialist from Belarus who taught me some tricks on the trapeze and tightrope?"

Now Phil's mind is helpfully providing him with much nicer images. Twenty year-old Clint. A _torrid_ affair. Good God. "I'm fairly certain I would remember anything that involved you and the word 'torrid'," Phil says, hoping that Clint doesn't pick up on the added roughness to his voice. "So, once again, no." 

Clint smirks. "You're totally picturing hot, barely legal me right now, aren't you?"

Phil sighs, extracts himself from Clint's grasp, and ignores the question. "I appreciate what you're telling me, and I admire and respect your skills, however, for the sake of my health, could you maybe not-"

"Walk on the edge?"

"Or anywhere close to the edge," Phil says. "Or maybe not come up here at all. Maybe you could stay inside. Where there are always four walls around you. And we could cushion the floor."

Clint chuckles.

"I'm kind of not joking," Phil says.

Clint keeps chuckling and now he's also looking at Phil like he's the most adorable thing Clint's ever seen. Phil sighs again.

"What are you two doing up here, anyway?" he asks.

"Nat and I are thinking about putting a garden in," Clint says, glancing around. "Wouldn't that be awesome? It would take a lot of work and effort to get it set up, but you can grow almost anything in containers, even some fruit trees. I could have fresh herbs, and we could have a green space to relax in." That bright, happy grin is back. "What do you think?"

Phil thinks it's a great idea. But he also thinks that if Clint is up here too much the temptation to do more stunts might grow right along with his plants. "Will you look into putting in a higher railing? Maybe something iron. With spikes. That you can't walk on." He hears Natasha snort again.

Clint rolls his eyes and looks exasperated, but it's a good-natured kind of exasperated, so Phil doesn't think he's really upset or put out.

"I need to find a gym with the right kind of equipment," Clint says, "and then I am going to blow your mind with what I can do, Phil."

"And then, when you're properly awed, he'll blow something else," Natasha adds.

Before Phil can become too mortified, Clint darts in close and presses a quick kiss to his mouth. "That's actually a pretty good idea." He tugs sharply on Phil's tie. "You wanna go downstairs and have our own torrid affair, officer?" 

Phil would love to be witty right now, but Clint's got heat, and hunger, and _promises_ behind his eyes, and all that manages to come out is a softly gasped, "Yes, please."

Natasha snorts again, but Phil really doesn't care. He's far too focused on how Clint still has a hold on his tie and is using it to pull him towards the stairs.

Torrid.

Jesus.

___________

 

"Why do you look so smug?" Maria asks Phil the next morning in lieu of her normal greeting of a barely caffeinated grunt.

Phil tries to wipe the smile off of his face. He fails. "Oh, you know. Things. Stuff. Reasons. Hey, Clint and Natasha are going to put in a rooftop garden."

"Huh. Nice."

"Yeah, I think so."


	4. Carol/Jess: Bleh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

When Jessica realizes she's read the same sentence over and over at least three times, she puts down the report in her hands, rolls her shoulders, cracks her neck, and announces "It's time for a break!"

Carol raises her head from her own file and blearily blinks at her a few times. "What?"

"A break," Jess says. "We've been at this for hours, our vic isn't getting any deader, and unless either of us has a magical epiphany or somebody walks through the front door and says ' _hey, I did it_ ' we're kind of stumped right now. We need a break."

"I don't think-"

"Carol, how much information have you retained from the last three pages you've read?"

Carol frowns down at the paper like it's personally offended her. "Crap. We need a break."

"Thank you," Jess says. "Hawkeye's?"

"Uh, God, no." Carol screws her face up. "Bleh."

"What... What do you mean, bleh?!"

"I mean, _bleh_."

"But, you love Hawkeye's," Jess says, her confusion plain in her voice. "I love Hawkeye's. Everybody loves Hawkeye's."

"Yeah, well, _some_ people love Hawkeye's too much, if you get what I'm saying."

"No, not really."

Carol glances around the nearly empty bullpen, then leans forward across her desk. "Ever since Coulson started dating Clive-"

"Clint."

"Whatever. It's been kind of... ew."

"You mean the two of them being all sappy and googly-eyed at each other over the counter?" Jess asks. 

"No, I mean the two of them boinking each other in the back room," Carol says. "Look, I'm just not that comfortable eating in the same place that Coulson gets his rocks off, okay?"

"They don't have sex in the actual diner, Carol," Jess says chidingly. She thinks for a moment, then leans forward across her desk. "Do they? Oh, my God, do you think they have sex in the actual diner?"

"I'm a little bothered that you sound almost enthusiastic about that prospect. The proper emotion should be disgust, Jess."

"Oh, yeah. Of course. Duh. The two of them... That wouldn't be hot at all..." Jess clears her throat. "But, come on, could you honestly see _Coulson_ , of all people, doing the beast with two backs in a booth or something? Don't you think he's probably a lights off, under the sheets kind of guy?"

"I'm trying not to think about what Coulson likes in bed," Carol says. "Or out of bed. Which is why I don't want to eat at Hawkeye's anymore."

Jess shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. "You're being ridiculous."

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you... Urgh." Jess stands up and grabs her jacket from off the back of her chair. "You may not want to go to Hawkeye's, but I would gladly maim someone for one Clint's patty melts."

Carol's jaw drops a bit. "You would go without me?"

"Patty melt."

"You'd abandon your own partner for a sandwich?"

"Patty. Melt."

" _Jess_."

Jess waggles her fingers at Carol. " _Patty melt_."

"Oh, for the... Fine! But if I catch anything-"

"What could you catch?!"

"-I am so saying 'I told you so'!"

"Yeah," Jess says fondly, "I don't doubt that for a second."


	5. Steve/Tony: Breakfast with the Billionaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

"No, Tony," Steve says one morning over breakfast, a forkful of pancakes half raised to his lips. "Tony, no." He can't help but feel a little bad at the way his fiance's - ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod _what_?! - handsome and expressive face falls. But if there's one thing Steve has learned over the years, it's how to stand firm when confronted with the infamous Stark pout.

"You don't even know what I was going to say, Rogers." Tony looks chagrined and far too adorable for a man of his age and wealth. Steve has an overwhelming urge to squish him.

"True," Steve says. "But I remember what you tried to get me to agree to the last time you wore that particular expression."

Tony sniffs. "I still say a honeymoon on the actual moon would have been both awesome and educational. And it's not like NASA's in a position to turn down donations, are they. Or advice on their propulsion systems. Morons. Plus, you would have looked unbelievably hot in a space suit."

"Tony, no one looks hot in a space suit."

"Okay, first, excuse you. Second, two words: skin tight Lycra." Tony's traded his adorableness for lecherousness. Steve still wants to squish him.

"That's three words, Tony."

"No, I'm pretty sure it's two."

"Well, I'm pretty sure it's three."

"Well, I'm pretty sure you went to public school." Tony's eyes widen and he blinks a few times. "That was mean, wasn't it? I was mean just now, wasn't I?"

"Little bit, yeah."

Tony reaches across the table and takes one of Steve's hands in both of his. "I'm sorry." 

"I know."

"I really am, Steve."

"Your sleeves are in my plate."

Tony drops Steve's hand, raises his arms, and looks perplexedly at the syrup dripping off of the cuffs of his long sleeve tee. "Huh. I'm sticky."

"Yeah, you are."

Tony's expression goes lecherous again. "Hey, I'm _sticky_."

Steve huffs. "No, Tony."

"But you could-"

"Tony. No."

"Fine," Tony says, crossing his arms over his chest. "I will just sit here and be sticky and unappreciated."

"I do appreciate you," Steve says. "Somewhat." He's trying to not show how amused he is because he knows Tony would only see that as encouragement. Judging from the grin forming on Tony's face, Steve thinks he's not being successful on that front.

"Big, blond killjoy," Tony says warmly.

"Yes, that's me."

"Fine," Tony says, heaving a mighty sigh. "Have it your way. I won't hire Michael Bublé to sing at our wedding."

"Thank you for... Wait. What?" It's Steve's turn to go wide-eyed. "What do you... You can do that?!"

Tony gives Steve a flat, unimpressed look. "Honestly, Rogers, what part of being richer than God can you simply not understand?"

"Don't blaspheme," Steve says faintly. "I like Michael Bublé."

"I know you do."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah, Tony?"

"I'm still sticky."

"No, Tony."

"Eh. Worth a shot."


	6. Darcy, Jane, Gwen, Peter, Luke, and Danny: Downtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

The six employees from Hawkeye's all smile politely as their server places their various drinks around the table. They murmur their thanks and appetizer orders, then wait until he leaves before they all slump into their seats.

"God, what a freakin' zoo," Gwen says before downing about half of her cherry coke. 

"You never realize just how much Clint and Natasha do until they're both gone at the same time," Peter says.

"Hey," Luke says, "we may have had to deal with a crazy evening, but let's all spare a moment for the good detectives." He raises his bottle, and the others follow suit.

"To Coulson and Barnes," Darcy says solemnly. "May they both escape what will most likely be the double-date from hell relatively unscathed."

"To Coulson and Barnes," everyone says before taking a sip of their drinks.

Danny set his bottle back on the table "So, with Clint, Tasha, and now Jane doing the dirty with detectives, who do you think will be the next one of us to fall to the thin, blue, line?"

"I think you mean, who's going to be the next one of us to fall on the thick blue d-"

"Darcy!" Jane sputters into her cocktail then smacks her friend on the shoulder. 

"Oh, come on!" Darcy says. "Thor's like seven feet tall, built like a linebacker, and named _Thor_ ; the guy has got to be packin'."

Danny nods absently. Gwen looks intrigued. Peter and Luke look like they'd rather be having dental work done than listen to this conversation.

"You have been, like, way perkier recently," Gwen says.

"That's because I'm happy," Jane says. "Thor is sweet, and kind, and..." Jane watches while Darcy lifts her glass and takes a large mouthful of beer. "And he's got a huge dick." Jane, along with everyone else at the table laughs delightedly as Darcy snorts, then sputters and squawks.

"Ow! Dammit, that went up my fucking nose!" 

"Maybe you should try keeping your mind out of the gutter," Luke says.

Darcy narrows her eyes and smiles sweetly at him. "Maybe you should tell us what's going on between you and that private eye chick who's been hanging around lately."

Now it's Luke's turn to choke on his beer.

"Wait," Danny says, frowning, "what private eye chick?"

"Oooh, she's cute," Gwen says. "In an abrasive mess kind of way."

Jane and Peter look at each other and shrug.

"She's not-" Luke winces as his voice breaks. "I'm not... We're not..." He rests his forehead on the table and mutters something decidedly unkind about Darcy's parentage.

Darcy cackles.

"No, seriously," Danny says, poking Luke in the shoulder. "What private eye chick?"

Luke raises his head. "It's not... She's not... We're not..."

"Dude, stop before you tear something internal," Peter says. "Just say it's complicated."

Luke sighs. "It's complicated."

Danny crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Luke. Luke picks up his menu and holds it up to block Danny's gaze.

"You two are adorable," Gwen says as she uses her straw to try and fish out the cherries from the bottom of her glass.

Darcy makes a soft, humming sound. "What about Detective Banner?" 

"What about him?" Jane asks.

"What about him for me?" Darcy scowls at the looks she receives. "He's hot!" 

"He's old," Peter says. 

"So Clint's the only one allowed to have a daddy kink, is that it?"

Jane shake her head disapprovingly. "Darcy, you have _got_ to stop using that phrase to describe Clint and Phil's relationship."

"Why?"

"Because," Gwen says, "one day you're going to slip and use it around one of the cops, which will result in them teasing the hell out of Phil, which will lead to Phil being angry and, depending on the nature of their relationship, questioning why Clint is really with him, which will lead to Clint getting angry and or depressed, which will lead to him murdering you and putting you in his meatloaf." She lets out a little cry of triumph as she finally spears one of the cherries with the end of her straw.

"I don't want to end up in the meatloaf," Darcy says. 

Peter shrugs. "On the plus side, though, you know you would be delicious."

"You can hold that menu up as long as you like, Luke," Danny says, "but you're eventually going to have to talk to me."

"If I don't see you, you don't exist." Luke hunches his shoulders and keeps his eyes focused on the table top. "Ow!" Luke lowers the menu and glares at Danny. "Did you just fucking pinch me?!"

"Did I? Huh, I guess that means I exist after all."

"What about Detective Hill?" Darcy asks.

"She's old too," Gwen says.

"She's not _that_ old," Jane says.

"She's scary." Peter's eyes are wide. "She scares me."

"So, are you and this girl dating," Danny says to Luke, "or..."

"What part of _it's complicated_ are you not getting?!" 

"Maybe it's not so much a daddy kink as a disciplinarian kink," Darcy muses. "Huh, and now I'm imagining Detective Hill as a dominatrix."

"Oh, God," Gwen says as a distant look comes to her eyes, "I am too."

"Same here," Peter says. "She's still scary. Hot, but scary."

"Is it like fuck buddies complicated," Danny asks, "or like actual relationship complicated?"

Luke glances around the table. "As soon as we get some silverware, I am going to stab you with a fork."

"You are all awful people," Jane says. "Terrible, horrible people." She grins. "I'm so glad we're all friends."

One by one the people around the table get wide smiles on their faces as they murmur their agreements. For a moment, everyone is happy and content.

"So, you're totally going to introduce me to her, right?"

"Dammit, Danny.


	7. Phil & Maria: Work Related

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

"Will you stop it," Maria says, glaring at Phil from across both of their desks.

"Stop what?" Phil asks.

"Stop that. Stop smiling. And being happy. And..." Maria's eyes, which were already narrowed, scrunch even further. "Christ on a cracker, Coulson, are you _humming_?!"

Phil pauses everything he's doing, takes a brief inventory of himself, and finds that, yes, he was indeed humming a jaunty little tune. "Huh."

"Ugh. Just... You are not allowed to hum. Got it?"

"Maria," Phil says calmly, "our case is closed, the murdering, sociopathic bastard we've been chasing across half the city is in holding and will probably be going to Rikers in the morning, and Fury has given us the next two days off. I can hum if I want to."

"Except you're not humming about closing the case," Maria says. "You're humming because you're going to go off and have a fuck ton of sex with your hottie boy toy. I do not appreciate pre-sex humming, Phil."

Phil raises an eyebrow.

Maria glowers at him. "You know what I mean. Shut up."

Phil snorts. "It's true, I am going to go off and have a fuck ton of sex with my hottie boyfriend. But, that is not why I'm so happy."

"Bullshit."

Phil feels the expression on his face grow into something soft and fond. "When I called Clint earlier to let him know I was coming by tonight, do you know the first thing he said to me?"

"What should I be wearing, daddy?"

"He said, 'I _knew_ you'd catch the guy, Phil'. I haven't seen him in five days. I've barely even had the time to call him. And _that_ is the first thing he says to me." Phil shakes his head at the wonder of it. "There was no anger, no resentment, no recrimination. He said he was going to be okay with weird hours, but..."

"Damn," Maria says. "I don't suppose Clint has a brother laying around that he hasn't told you about? Or a cousin? I would take a cousin."

Phil chuckles.

"You grinning still freaks me out, though."

"Noted."

"Also, don't ever use the word 'hottie' again."

"Yeah, that felt weird to me too."


	8. Clint/Phil + Nat: Wake Up Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

Phil finds himself coming to consciousness slowly. The morning is quiet and still, too early for alarms and thankfully free of ringing phones. With Clint a warm presence along his back and a firm pillow cradling his head, Phil lets himself drift and luxuriate in this rare moment of complete contentment.

All too soon certain needs begin to make themselves known. Phil's empty stomach - which had gotten thoroughly spoiled since he started sleeping with Clint - gurgles ominously, but it's his bladder that Phil knows is going to develop into his most pressing concern. 

With a soft huff of annoyance at his ever advancing age, Phil finally opens his eyes and finds Natasha's face less than a foot away from his own.

Phil curses and recoils, not that he can go far with Clint so close behind him. 

Clint makes a distressed sound at being jostled. "It's your turn to wash the elephant," he mumbles before pressing his face firmly between Phil's shoulder blades and settling back down.

Phil would find the whole thing incredibly adorable if he wasn't clutching at his chest and trying to regulate the rush of adrenaline flooding his system.

"Are you having a heart attack?" Natasha asks. She remains crouched beside the bed, but she does lean back a bit, as if giving Phil a couple of inches of space might help him somehow. Or maybe she thinks heart attacks are communicable, who the hell knows.

Phil glares at her.

"Your lack of perception is disturbing," she says. "Especially for someone in your line of work."

Phil glares some more. "I was asleep."

"No you weren't. You've been awake for at least seven minutes."

Phil feels a muscle under his left eye twitch. "How long have you been here?" 

Natasha slowly shakes her head. "Disturbing."

"Yes," Phil says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It is. Extremely disturbing. What do you want Natasha?"

"I need to talk to Clint."

Even as annoyed as he is, Phil recognizes the significance of Natasha's wording. Now that he knows what to look for, he easily spots a certain tightness around her eyes and mouth that he's only seen on one or two rare occasions. It's an expression that's always preceded a long and private conversation with Clint.

Phil briefly closes his eyes, then says, "I need to pee."

Natasha gracefully rises out of her crouch and turns to face the wall. "Your boxers are-"

"Yes, thank you, I know where they are." Phil sits up and turns to address his blissfully unaware boyfriend. He reaches over and lets his hand curl around the curve of Clint's skull before moving down to firmly caress his neck and shoulder. Clint stirs and his pretty eyes open. They crinkle at the corners as he smiles softly at Phil, but his expression quickly turns into a frown when he spots Natasha.

Clint raises his eyebrows. Phil shrugs, then extracts himself from the sheets. He walks towards the bathroom, snagging his boxers along the way.

When Phil leaves the bathroom some time later, freshly showered and with a soft, aubergine colored towel around his waist, Natasha has taken Phil's place on the bed. She and Clint are deep in conversation. There are frowns on both of their faces, though Clint's seems more exasperated than anything else, and their hands are moving almost violently in the air around them. 

Phil quickly averts his eyes. He hasn't had time to take an actual ASL class yet, but he has picked up a lot of basic things from just being with Clint, and he doesn't want to inadvertently see anything he shouldn't.

"Sorry," he says. "Don't mind me." He walks over to the wardrobe Clint got specifically to hold Phil's suits - and any other clothes of his that have migrated from his apartment - and grabs a tee shirt, jeans, and a pair of underwear. He goes back to the bathroom to change. When he's done, he peeks into the bedroom area again. 

Now Natasha is curled up against Clint. Her head is on his chest, and he's lightly carding a hand through her hair.

Phil feels a twinge of jealousy. He knows it's stupid, and unwarranted, and Natasha would probably skin him alive if she knew - which still wouldn't be as painful as the wounded look Clint would give him - but he can't help it. 

Calling himself all kinds of a fool, Phil exits Clint's living space and walks into the diner. He sets up one of the coffee makers and leans against the counter. He closes his eyes and listens to the gurgle, hiss, then steady drip, drip, drip of liquid into the carafe.

When he opens his eyes Natasha is standing beside him.

Phil inhales sharply. "Would you please not do that?"

" _Very_ disturbing," she says.

Phil gives her a dirty look. Natasha smirks, grabs a mug, and manages to fill it to the top without letting any of the still brewing coffee splash onto the hot plate.

"How did you-"

"Clint's making you a special batch of 'I'm-sorry-we-couldn't-cuddle' muffins," she says as she hands Phil the mug.

Phil raises one eyebrow. "Is that what he's calling them?"

"No. I believe the word he used was blueberry." Natasha snorts as Phil immediately moves past her to go back to Clint's apartment. "Phil?"

Phil pauses, and as he turns back to her he catches a flash of something close to vulnerability on Natasha's face. It's gone as fast as it appeared, and Phil blinks, wondering if he imagined it.

"Clint is the only person in this world who calls me Nat," she says, after a moment. "But, if you like, you may call me Tasha."

Phil, aware of what he's just been given, nods solemnly. "Thank you Tasha."

"You're welcome. Now go away."

Phil smiles and raises his mug in a little salute.


	9. Clint/Phil: Making Passes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and mini fics from A Lunch Counter Love Story 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.
> 
> There has been an overabundance of Clark Gregg in glasses on my Tumblr dash recently. This is the result.

The first time Clint sees Phil with his glasses on - sitting in Clint's comfy, overstuffed armchair and perusing that morning's paper- he gets this funny, tingley feeling in his stomach. It's different from the normal attraction he feels when he looks at Phil. This is more... _lustful_. Which is strange because Clint already lusts after Phil. Clint lusts after Phil just fine.

But those glasses... Those dark, thick frames perched on Phil's nose are getting Clint's engine revving like nothing, _nothing_ has before. Not even Phil's dress uniform. Not even Phil's handcuffs.

Phil's glasses are... "Guh."

Phil looks up. His bright blue eyes, seemingly magnified by the thick lenses, blink. 

Clint thinks he's getting lightheaded.

"You okay?" Phil asks.

"You... There's... Glasses."

"Oh." Phil blushes as he reaches up to touch the frames. Blushes. _Blushes_. "Well, I thought, what with you peeing while I brushed my teeth the other day, that we're past the whole vanity stage in the relationship, so..."

"You..." Clint clears his throat. "You didn't wear those because you were worried that they might make you look bad?"

"I know they're stylish because the woman at the eyeglass place told me so." Phil grimaces. "But it's not like I need another sign that I'm not getting any younger, you know?"

"It's true, you aren't getting younger," Clint says as he swiftly moves across the room, "but you are most definitely getting hotter." He plucks the newspaper from Phil's hands and throws it over his shoulder, letting the pages flutter to the floor. Before Phil can make more than a token noise of protest, Clint straddles his lap. Phil's hands automatically settle on Clint's hips.

"Uh..."

"You really don't know." Clint puts his hands in Phil's hair and holds him steady as he looks his fill. "How can you not know?"

"Um..."

"You're just sitting here like some kind of... some kind of... naughty, professor-type person."

"Uh..."

"So fucking hot." Clint lets his hands skim around the side of Phil's head to his jaw, his fingertips pressing into the rasp of stubble that Phil's grown over the course of the day. "Here's what's going to happen. We're gonna go into the bedroom."

"Uh huh."

"You're gonna blow me."

"All right."

"Then I'm gonna ride you 'til you can't see straight."

"Okay."

"Any problems or concerns with that scenario?"

"None I can think of at the moment." Phil licks his lips. "I'm going to assume you want me to keep the glasses on?"

Clint pats his cheek. "Hot damn. All this and brains too."


	10. Clint/Phil: Muffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint takes some baked goods more seriously than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

On his days off, Phil's gotten used to being woken up by enticing scents drifting through Clint's apartment. He knows he's spoiled, and he enjoys every second of it - even if he doesn't enjoy the extra cardio and sit ups he's started putting himself through after receiving these culinary wake-up calls.

This time when Phil's eyes slowly blink open, his internal calendar tells him it's a Sunday, and his nose tells him that something warm, and rich, and spicy is waiting for him in the oven. It's a different smell than what he's gotten used to - the muffins and breads packed with fresh seasonal fruits and vegetables from the farmers market Clint frequents - and Phil can't help but be intrigued. And hungry.

Phil gets out of bed and pulls on boxers and a tee shirt. He makes a quick detour to the bathroom, and then he heads to the small kitchen area. Clint's doing dishes, but there are two plates on the table, and next to one of them is the mug Phil has appropriated for himself. It's filled to the brim with coffee that's a few shades lighter than what's in Clint's cup.

Clint grins at Phil from over his shoulder. "Morning," he says as he shuts off the water and starts to dry his hands on a dish towel.

"You're too good to me," Phil says as sidles up behind Clint and wraps him in a quick, but strong, hug. He presses his lips to the side of Clint's neck and let his hands settle on Clint's hips.

Clint makes a little scoffing sound as he tilts his head, giving Phil more access to the sensitive skin of his throat. "There's nothing wrong with pampering you a little bit on the mornings you don't have to rush off and catch bad guys." He lets his hands rest on top of Phil's. "And as much as I always appreciate your attentions, if you don't stop, our muffins are gonna get cold."

Phil immediately backs away, and Clint snorts out a laugh. "What? I can nibble on you anytime; there's a limited window for warm-from-the-oven muffins."

Clint picks up his dishtowel in both hands, twirls the middle of it a few times, and snaps it at Phil's hip. Phil laughs and dances away from the threat.

"Careful," he says, "assaulting an officer of the law like that."

"Uh oh," Clint discards the towel again and grabs an oven mitt. "You gonna have to take me in, Detective?" he asks, lewdness practically dripping from each word. He winks, and puts a little arch into his back as he bends over to tend to what's in the oven.

Phil would laugh at how over-the-top it is, but there's nothing humorous in the way Clint's dark purple boxer briefs hug the pronounced curve of his perfect backside. Phil can't help but have a few serious thoughts about forgoing breakfast. 

Clint straightens up. There's a muffin tin in his mitt-covered hand and a small line between his eyebrows. "Phil?"

Phil has to clear his throat before he can speak. "I'm thinking about it."

Clint blinks a few times before he realizes what Phil's saying. A soft flush comes to the tops of his cheeks, and he gives Phil lascivious grin before he turns back to the counter. "Later, baby. Muffins first, remember?"

"Right." Phil licks his lips and lets his eyes linger a little big longer. "Muffins."

Clint upends the muffin tin onto a serving plate and arranges them to his liking. Balancing the plate in the crook of his arm, Clint grabs some knives from the cutlery drawer and the butter from the fridge, then deposits everything on the table.

"There we go," he says, "eat up."

Phil picks up one of the muffins and examines it for a moment. It looks magazine perfect, like most of Clint's baked goods. It's medium brown in color, and there aren't any noticeable bits of fruit that Phil can see. With nothing else to glean from the visible inspection, Phil brings the muffin up to his nose and takes a deep sniff. It smells divine. There's the scent of cinnamon, and probably a couple of other spices too, and something else that's familiar, but just beyond Phil's reach. He pulls the muffin away from his face and peers at it again.

"Are you gonna eat it, or are you gonna ask it was it was doing last Thursday night?" Clint asks with more than a tiny bit of irritation in his voice.

Phil looks up and smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. It looks incredible and smells amazing. Really."

"Yet you haven't put it in your mouth yet. I want you to know that I could make several different sex jokes right now, but I'm not."

"I admire your restraint."

"Thank you. What's wrong with your muffin?"

"Nothing. I'm just... I'm trying to figure out what it is."

"I just said; it's a muffin."

Phil lightly kicks at Clint's legs. "Yes, thank you. I meant I was trying to figure out _what kind_ of muffin it is"

Clint blinks. "What, seriously? Phil, it's.... it's pumpkin. You don't recognize a pumpkin muffin when you see one?"

"Obviously not," Phil says. Though, now that he knows the muffin's identity, it's easy to see. "Isn't it a little early for pumpkin?"

Clint blinks again. "You don't like pumpkin?"

"I didn't say that. I said, isn't it a little early? It's still summer."

"It's September."

"It's supposed to be in the lower 90s today."

"It's September."

"Doesn't Autumn officially start on the 20th?"

"It's _September_.

"Yeah, but I..." Phil trails off when he notices how narrow Clint's eyes have gotten. He smiles weakly as he brings the muffin up to his mouth and takes a large bite. His eyes close as the muffin's flavor - pumpkin, cinnamon, something else... ginger, maybe nutmeg - hits his tongue and sends a little shot of pure, warmly-spiced bliss to his brain. "Wow," he says dreamily. He opens his eyes. Clint is still watching him, but now his gaze is far more approving. "Okay. Pumpkin. Pumpkin's good. I'm a fan." He takes another bite.

"Great," Clint says, "we don't have to break up after all."

Phil blinks. "What?"

"What?"

"You said-"

"What?"

"But-"

"Eat your muffin, Phil."

"Okay."


	11. Treats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's just getting into the holiday spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

"So," Clint says, eyes shining, hair mussed, and lips quirked up into an irrepressible grin, "what do you think?"

"Uh..." Phil looks around the diner at the multitude of fake cobwebs, spiders, bats, black cats, and pumpkins that have appeared in the few hours since he left for work this morning. His eyes catch on Tasha, who's standing a few feet behind Clint. She points at Phil, then points at Clint and grins widely. "Um..." Tasha's grin abruptly turns down into a fierce scowl. She points at Phil again, then draws that same finger across her throat. "I love it," Phil says quickly. "It's great. Very... Great."

Clint's smile dims a bit. "You mean it?"

Phil keeps his eyes focused on his boyfriend and firmly away from any lurking psychotic waitresses. "Absolutely," he says as he pulls Clint towards him by the tie of his new orange and black apron. Phil's not usually comfortable being overly demonstrative in front of a lot of people, but it's a slow Tuesday, and most of the pre-lunch crowd seem to be regulars, so he doesn't hesitate in pressing a quick kiss to the side of Clint's mouth. 

Clint beams at him. "Awesome. I was afraid it might end up being a bit much."

"Nonsense," Tasha says sharply. She cuts her eyes around the room, and Phil realizes that every single person in the diner - staff and customer alike - are keeping their heads down and avoiding eye contact.

"I like it," Darcy says as she sweeps towards them. There's a tray balanced in the crook of one arm, and a black witch's hat with feathery trim sits jauntily on her head. "It's _festive_."

Clint's expression turns a tad sheepish. "It's just, I've always like the idea of Halloween, you know. I think I got to dress up a couple of times when I was little..." Clint's brow furrows as his eyes grow distant for a few seconds. "But there was the orphanage, and then at the circus we were always too busy to go out. And there really didn't seem to be a point in spending time or money decorating, and-"

"You want to take advantage of your first Halloween in your own space," Phil says.

Clint's face lights back up again. "Exactly! See, I knew you'd get it." He looks over his shoulder. "I knew he'd get it, Nat."

Tasha smiles thinly. "Mmmhmm."

The bell over the door rings, and before Phil or Tasha can say anything Maria's voice calls out, "Dear God, Barton, did the Great Pumpkin throw up in here or what?"

"It's _festive_ ," Phil says with a glare.

" _Festive_ ," Tasha says with a crack of her knuckles.

"Maybe I should take down a few cobwebs," Clint says.

"You're not taking anything down," Phil says. "It's perfect. Tasha, tell Maria how perfect everything is."

Tasha's answering smile shows far too many teeth. "With pleasure."

Phil tugs on Clint's apron and starts to pull him back towards the door that leads to the kitchen and, beyond that, Clint's living space. He doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt as he leaves his partner to Tasha's less than tender mercies. "Have you put stuff up in your apartment too?"

"Oh, um, yeah. Not as much as out here, though. I was kind of thinking..." Clint clears his throat and scratches at the short hairs at the back of his neck. "I was kind of thinking that you and I could put up some decorations together." 

The smile Clint gives him is a sweet and bashful thing, and one of Phil's favorites. "I'll drape fake cobwebs over anything that stands still long enough," he promises.

"Okay," Clint says with a laugh, "that might be a little much. But I wouldn't mind you helping me carve a couple of pumpkins. And I was thinking I could take the seeds and roast them. Oooh, and, of course, we'd have to do something with the rest of the innards, so, pie, right?

Phil abruptly stops right before the door to Clint's apartment, and since he's still got a hold of his apron, Clint stops too.

"Phil?"

"You're going to make me pumpkin pie made from real pumpkins?"

"What else would pumpkin pie be made from?"

"Canned pumpkin."

"Well, sure, that's what you use when fresh pumpkins aren't in season." Clint looks confused, then he looks startled as Phil puts a hand on the back of his neck, pulls him close, and kisses him until they're both breathless. When Phil ends the kiss, Clint pants for a few seconds, then says, "I was thinking about making a fresh batch of whipped cream too." And then he's being kissed again. "And... maybe some... homemade caramel... for the next batch... of apples I get..."

"Wait," Phil says, pulling back a bit, "homemade caramel? You can make that?"

"Oh, Phil." Clint shakes his head. "I'm planning on make all sorts of candy. Pralines, peanut butter cups, truffles, marshmallows, chocolate covered everything-"

"Wait," Phil says, "you can make _marshmallows_?!"

"Oh, _Phil_."

"Holy crap. I'm not sure I'm gonna survive Halloween."

"You'd better. Just wait 'til you see what I have planned for Thanksgiving."

Phil whimpers.

_______

end


End file.
